


I Should Never Have Taken It Off

by fireopal77



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bullet Necklace, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Humor, Romance, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 06:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16035104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireopal77/pseuds/fireopal77
Summary: An alternate ending to episode 3x19, what happens after Chloe takes the bullet necklace off to please Pierce.





	I Should Never Have Taken It Off

The necklace in Chloe’s pocket bothers her, like a bullet lodged just beneath the skin. No matter how many times she reaches inside to readjust it, the squashed-in, blunted tip keeps nuzzling her hip, reminding her of the penetration joke that accompanied the gift. She’s haunted by the shared smiles and laughter, and, most of all, the hug, the way she felt when Lucifer laid his head on her shoulder, trustingly yet awkwardly, like a child unaccustomed to hugs. The moment he lets go and relaxes in her arms always feels like the sweetest victory to Chloe.

 

Her hand keeps straying inside and stroking the bullet, sometimes in such a sensual way that it almost makes her blush. She tries to tell herself that it’s only because it’s such a precious gift that she constantly has to reassure herself that it’s still there. But who is she trying to fool? There are no holes in the jacket’s lining, the seams are securely sewn, and there is a zipper she could pull if she really wanted to. She’s put valuable, vital, evidence in her pockets and worried less about it.

 

It should be a pleasant, easy evening, but it’s not. Chloe finds that she keeps having to force herself to nod and smile and chat amiably with Pierce, while hoping he won’t notice that only half her mind, and, for most of the time, only one of her hands, is there, and that she’s barely touched her dinner; her fork mostly moves the stir-fried vegetables and rice around on her plate, like a bored, picky child.

 

Pierce finds it odd that she insists on keeping her jacket on, it’s a warm night, and the shirt she has on underneath has long sleeves, and he's confident in his body's ability to keep hers warm, but still Chloe demurs. The shirt she’s wearing doesn’t have pockets, and the thought of putting the necklace in her jeans, in one of the front pockets, in such close proximity to her pelvis, makes Chloe feel hot even when she’s mumbling excuses—okay, lies!—about being cold.

 

“Not tonight,” she says gently, almost, but not quite, apologetically, pushing Pierce away when his kiss starts to deepen and he presses her to let him stay.

 

She sees the ghost of annoyance flit across his eyes. He knows Trixie is away at a sleepover, making this the perfect night for them to be alone free from all child related worries and cautions. But he senses that pushing too hard would be a mistake, so he says good night and leaves.

 

Alone in her apartment, Chloe feels relieved but restless.  She changes into her red and black plaid sleep shirt and lies down on the couch. She dangles the bullet high by its chain, letting it sway like a pendulum over her heart, watching it glisten in the firelight.

 

“I should never have taken it off,” she says with sudden, unshakable, conviction.  

 

It’s a special gift from someone special. What’s wrong with that? If it had been a gift from anyone else would she have taken it off? What if Pierce had complained about the small round diamond brilliant that used to be her go-to necklace? Trixie and Dan had given her the simple but sparkly little diamond pendant as a joint birthday present the year Chloe was promoted to detective. Trixie thought her mommy should have a star and the tiny diamond sparkled just like one. Since Lucifer gave her the bullet necklace she’s either alternated between the two or worn them together, the bullet’s chain is just long enough that they layer perfectly. After all, the diamond is partly from another man, even though they’re divorced, she still cares about Dan, and, as the father of her child, he will always be a part of her life, they’re friends and work well together. What if Pierce had objected to that necklace? Would she have taken it off? Would she have apologized for making him worry about it?

 

No—the answer comes quickly. She was wrong, and the worst part is she’s known it since the moment she reached for the clasp. So why did she do it? Why did she give in? _Settling_ , _fear_ , _hurt_ , _loneliness_ , _rejection_ , _pride_ —all these bleak, painful but brutally honest words bob to the surface of her mind, many with meanings multi-faceted like a diamond. It doesn’t escape her that the most important one— _Love_ —is missing, or that if she were to change the wording of the question and ask herself why she had put the bullet necklace on, she would get a different set of words altogether. Nicer, warmer words, and _Love_ would be one of them.

 

She’s made up her mind. She’ll put the necklace back on when she gets dressed in the morning and continue to wear it just like she always has. Pierce will just have to live with it. Chloe wants a man who is in control, not one who is controlling. She doesn’t want to feel like a lump of clay in his hands, meek and willing, for him to mold and shape, and bend her to his will.

 

She likes spending time with Pierce, but there’s always a need for caution she can never quite shake, her self-protective walls never completely fall down. He makes her feel like a timid and shy schoolgirl with her first real crush, always on her toes, so eager to please, instead of the mature, capable, intelligent and responsible woman she really is. No matter how often she tells herself, “this is good, this is nice,”—and it is!—she’s never completely relaxed with him. She feel vulnerable, but not in a good, okay, way. She’s always worrying about messing up, saying the wrong thing, and blowing it.

 

Why does she always feel like she has to apologize for everything? Why does she constantly feel like she owes him an explanation? Is it because he’s her boss? Is that what’s causing her to feel so desperate for his approval even outside of work? She didn’t even think he liked her, or that she liked him, until Ella kept insisting, pointing out all the signs, and cramming the word “chemistry” down her throat until she thought she was going to choke on it. But Pierce is a guarded, emotionally vigilant, self-controlled guy—and that’s a good thing!—mutual respect came gradually and then ripened into actual liking. He’s a safe, sane, steady guy, he’s the strong, reliable, responsible type, and that’s what she wants. Or is that what she thinks she should want? The lines are so blurred she might as well be trying to take a Field Sobriety Test blindfolded and blind drunk.

 

The last time she followed her heart it led only to disappointment, pain and rejection. After she almost died, Lucifer ran away to Las Vegas and came back with balloon-breasted Candy—Mrs. Morningstar—with her skintight mini-dresses, sky-high heels, and pink-streaked bleached blonde hair. It felt just like a slap in the face to Chloe, or worse, like he had reached inside her chest, torn her heart out, then thrown it down on the floor and stomped on it, grinding the life out of it, like a cigarette butt. That’s exactly what it felt like when he introduced her to his wife. Just thinking about it makes tears prick her eyes. Maybe the reason it still hurts so much is that she’s never really dealt with it, only tried to get past it and move on, like putting gloss over an ugly split lip, hoping that will make it feel and look better.

 

The truth is, no matter how hard she tries not to, a part of Chloe’s mind is always comparing herself to the women who keep Lucifer’s bed warm. That night after 92 of his lovers paraded through the precinct for questioning she stood in front of her bathroom mirror and cried. She could never be like them, and if she tried, got the actress in her out of mothballs and pretended, even if it worked, it wouldn’t be real, or right, because it wouldn’t really be her that Lucifer desired.

 

Deep down, a little voice whispers what she’s really so afraid of—that’s she’s too boring, too Plain Jane vanilla, for Lucifer. They’re just too different. Chloe wants a man in her bed, just a man, loving her, holding her, kissing and caressing her to the heights of ecstasy, not car batteries, Tibetan Singing Pots, Artisan Honey, miscellaneous vegetables, and Brittanys, she has no desire for  a Devil’s Threesome, and the only Eiffel Tower she’s even remotely interested in is an architectural structure in Paris. If he needs all that, to excite him and stave off boredom, how could she alone ever possibly be enough? With Pierce, at least, she seems to have a chance. And wouldn’t it be foolish to throw that away? As mother and the mirror always say, she’s a single working mother and not getting any younger.

 

Finally, wearying of all this introspective wrestling, hot and halfway to a headache, Chloe gets up and pulls on her jeans, thrusts her bare feet back into her boots, and grabs her car keys. She doesn’t even care that she’s braless under her pajama top or that she hasn’t even bothered to brush her hair.

 

As she drives to Lux, Chloe decides to take it as a sign whether Lucifer is alone or has company. If it’s the latter, she’ll invent some excuse and make a speedy exit, or maybe she can duck out without him realizing that she’s been there at all, and she’ll close that door forever and concentrate on making the best of things with Pierce. It’s almost 2:00 a.m.—who is she kidding?—of course he’ll be with somebody! Why is she even bothering to go and see? She should just turn the car around. But Chloe keeps driving. Since she’s already come this far…she might as well just steel herself for disappointment and get it over with.

 

She finds Lucifer alone, at his piano in the dimly lit penthouse, barefoot and bare-chested with his black robe hanging open over his black silk boxer shorts. His dark hair is ruffled messily over his forehead, and he’s playing something fast, intense and classical. It’s not the sort of thing she’s accustomed to hearing him play, but she’s pretty sure it’s Mozart’s Symphony No. 40. When Chloe was nervous about auditions her mother used to always break out the classical music CDs some shrink or guru had recommended, sometimes she’d even light incense and insist they do breathing exercises together, which always left Chloe with a headache and perfume-scorched lungs, but at least the music was nice.

 

There’s a half-empty glass of whiskey and a cigarette resting forgotten on the crystal ashtray beside it, sending curlicues of white smoke into the air. When he reaches for his drink, Lucifer sees her standing by the bar.

 

“Detective,” he smiles and his eyes light up at the sight of her, “what brings you here this time of night, or should I say morning?”

 

“Oh…I…um…” Chloe blushes and stammers, it really doesn’t help that his robe is hanging open, revealing his slender, finely chiseled tan body, like a work of art, as he comes towards her, languidly and sensually, casually reaching up to brush back the hair tickling his forehead. “Um…I…uh…” She fidgets with the necklace she’s still holding. Funny, she’d been so certain he’d be with someone that she hadn’t even bothered to think of a suitable excuse if she actually found him alone. “This!” Chloe says quickly and holds the necklace up by its chain. “Could you…uh…help me with the clasp?”

 

“Of course, Detective,” Lucifer says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for her to come to his penthouse at two o’clock in the morning with messy hair and an old pajama top thrown on over yesterday’s jeans and ask him to help her put on a necklace. He steps behind her and drapes her hair over her shoulder. Chloe quivers and her breath catches at the gentle graze of his knuckles against the nape of her neck.

 

“I…I took it off earlier…I shouldn’t have…but…”

 

“Nonsense, Detective, it’s rather an unconventional piece and won’t always work with what you’re wearing. Besides, I never intended it should permanently replace that dinky little diamond from your offspring and Detective Dou—I mean, Daniel—I understand that it has sentimental value greater than its carat weight.”

 

“This has too,” Chloe’s fingers again find and caress the bullet.

 

“The clasp seems fine…a trifle small perhaps…” she can hear the thoughtful frown in his voice.

 

“No…yes…I mean…it isn’t broken or anything, I just…I don’t know! Maybe I’ve let my nails get too long!”

 

“Well then, tomorrow we can stop by my jeweler’s and you can choose a new clasp, something that will be easier for you to manage.”

 

“Lucifer, you don’t have to…”

 

“I insist; the pieces that are difficult are the ones that spend the most time inside a lady’s jewelry box instead of on her body.” He walks back around and gently takes her hands and carefully inspects her nails. It’s all Chloe can do to stop herself from staring at his bare chest, and those hard, firm little nipples, but if she looks down…she’ll be staring at those black silk shorts. “No cracks or splits…a little rough and uneven here…Have you been biting them?” He looks up shrewdly, but when Chloe doesn’t answer and keeps her eyes stubbornly averted, he shrugs, “well…not to worry, Detective, should you ever need her, my manicurist is on 24 hour retainer.”

 

“Of course she is!” Chloe nods and jerks her hands away.

 

Lucifer frowns. “That bothers you; why?”

 

“Oh, no reason, no reason at all!” Chloe snaps and starts for the elevator.

 

“Actually, I think you’d like Daphne, lovely woman, very mother-henish,” Lucifer continues, nonchalantly leaning against the bar. “But not really my type, it’s nothing like that, if that’s what you’re thinking, and I suspect it is. She’s like a marshmallow with limbs and a bobble head—very sweet, amusing and agreeable. Her spawn has a disease called leukemia, sort of a cancer—I looked it up—and my erratic schedule and the odd nail emergency here and there gets her out of the house, livens things up, gives her and her sister something to laugh about over coffee, and helps with expenses too; she’s the proud sort, not one to accept charity. But I insist, if I have to wake someone up at 3:00 a.m. to give me a manicure, or to paint Amenadiel’s nails Watermelon Sparkle Pink when he’s passed out after one too many Crantinis, they deserve to be well compensated. Bloody brilliant, that was!” he grins at the memory. “He didn’t even notice until a chap at the coffee shop bought him a Cinnamon Spice Latte and invited him home to see his art collection. My poor brother took him literally, of course, thought he was just being friendly, never even guessed his true intentions until they were already in the bedroom! Rather an awkward afternoon for both of them, and an abysmal collection of prints too apparently! Framed vintage covers of _Good Housekeeping Magazine_ all over the place and a life-sized pink plastic _Venus de Milo_ by the bed with a clock set in her stomach and a lampshade where her head should have been. I, for one, wouldn’t want to wake up to that monstrosity! But I suppose there’s no accounting for taste,” Lucifer says with a sigh worthy of a martyr, “no wonder he fancied my brother!”

 

Chloe can’t help but smile and a ripple of laughter shakes her shoulders. “You’re such a child!”

 

 “Detective,” Lucifer purrs smoothly and, taking her laughter as a sign of encouragement, sidles closer, “are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a manicure? My treat, of course! Daphne has a polish called Iced Cappuccino Pink that would suit you splendidly! It’s a very soft nude kissed with a delicate blush.” The way he describes it makes even nail polish sound erotic and sends another shiver down Chloe’s spine.

 

“It’s late; I should go…” Chloe says quietly, keeping her back to him. She feels very tired suddenly, and ashamed of herself for jumping to conclusions, even if it was a very obvious and natural one all things considered.

 

Her keys fall heavily from her hand and crash onto the marble floor.

 

Lucifer swiftly retrieves them, but instead of giving them back to her, he lays them on the bar.

 

“My piano tuner is on 24 hour retainer too; does that also bother you?”

 

“Should it?” Chloe boldly turns around to face him.

 

“No,” he answers honestly and straightforwardly. “None of the people who come here—women or men—should bother you; they can all leave and never come back again for all I care. All except you, Detect—Chloe,” his voice softens and trips lightly over the syllables of her name.

 

He takes a step towards her, and then another. His gaze sweeps slowly down from her smoky blue eyes to her lips, and then up again, back to her eyes, and, as he moves a step closer, down to her mouth again. Chloe’s lips tremble as she offers him a small nod of encouragement. But it’s exactly what Lucifer needs. His dark head dips down, gracefully as a swan’s, and his lips softly meet hers, light as a feather at first, but then deeper, harder, hungrier, when her hands rise to clasp his face, and his hands find and grasp her waist, pulling her closer. He lifts her, and her legs and arms twine naturally around him.

 

Chloe’s brain tries to remind her to be sensible, but her heart and body join forces and out-shout it.

 

“It’s late…” she tries again, mumbling the words between kisses as she clings to him. “I should go…”

 

“To bed,” Lucifer says between kisses, it’s a question and a suggestion at the same time.

 

“Yeah,” Chloe nods, her fingers digging into his dark hair, murmuring the words into his mouth as she pulls him close for another kiss, “to bed.”

 

And that’s exactly where he carries her. The sheets are champagne satin and the bedspread is black jacquard tonight. He lays her down tenderly against the pillows and, after another deep, long, lingering kiss, slides down the bed to remove her ankle boots and peel off her tight jeans, planting a kiss just above the lace border of her pale blue panties. He lays her phone on the nightstand and slips out of his robe to the sudden, jarring, discordant music of snoring.

 

“Just like an Albanian field wench!” Lucifer sighs fondly as he climbs into bed beside her and turns off the light. But she’s here, she’s staying; it’s a promising start.


End file.
